America Spelled A-N-D-Y

LOOP - It was the afternoon following the birthday of our nation, and two days after Andy Roddick played what a lot of smart people thought was the best match of his career against Andy Murray and 15,000 of his closest friends. I was physically ill watching Roddick play in that final. I honestly cannot remember a sporting event I was more emotionally invested in than that tennis match this past Sunday. Four and a half hours, 77 games, and one break of serve later, Andy Roddick is hanging his head at his change –over chair as the runner up in the 2009 Wimbledon and I feel more defeated than I did in ’03 when Aaron Boone sent a Tim Wakefield Knuckleball, and Red Sox World Series hopes, soaring in to the upper deck of Yankee Stadium. I’ve never been more nervous watching anything than I was watching Roddick in that fifth set trying to hold his bigger-than-life serve. At one point during that match I told my family I would forfeit the remainder of the Red Sox season for a Roddick win. At one point my younger, slightly more neurotic, brother said he would let our 10 year old sister catch swine flu if it meant a Roddick win. I’m quite sure he meant it.

When the match was over, I found myself wondering what you can even begin to compare that match to, and I came up with this: If the 6 OT, Syracuse v. UConn Big East final had been for the national championship of college basketball, or if Junior Griffey robbing Lou Collins of a game-tying dinger in “Little Big League” had been in the 20^th inning of that Twins v. Mariners game.

I know he’s great, I know I’m witnessing something remarkable every time I get to see him play, but I really and truly despise Roger Federer. His subtle arrogance, his big nose, the way he runs his hand through his hair every 6 seconds, his Gillette commercials. I even despise his unborn child. He had the number “15” embroidered in gold on his post-match Nike zip-up, and two adds in the first TV break after the match. Roger: WE GET IT. You’re strangely good at tennis; for the love of God we get it. I did manage to take some solace in the fact that Andy got to go home to Brooklyn Decker, who I’d take a year off of my life to get with, and Roger had to go home to his wife, Mirka, and I wouldn’t let my Norwich Terrier fuck something named Mirka.

Let me close with this: If you rooted for Federer in that Wimbledon final, you do not love your country, you are no longer aloud to root for the USA or any athlete belonging to the USA in international sporting events, and your pro-Federer facebook status is no different than a 1940’s pro-Hitler status.